APDL Eductation Resources/APDL Eductation Resources.iso/text/authors/poe/morningwis/MORNINGWIS

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                              1850
                  MORNING ON THE WISSAHICCON
                       by Edgar Allen Poe


THE NATURAL scenery of America has often been contrasted, in its
general features as well as in detail, with the landscape of the Old
World- more especially of Europe- and not deeper has been the
enthusiasm, than wide the dissension, of the supporters of each region.
The discussion is one not likely to be soon closed, for, although much
has been said on both sides, a word more yet remains to be said.

The most conspicuous of the British tourists who have attempted a
comparison, seem to regard our northern and eastern seaboard,
comparatively speaking, as all of America, at least, as all of the
United States, worthy consideration. They say little, because they have
seen less, of the gorgeous interior scenery of some of our western and
southern districts- of the vast valley of Louisiana, for example,- a
realization of the wildest dreams of paradise. For the most part, these
travellers content themselves with a hasty inspection of the natural
lions of the land- the Hudson, Niagara, the Catskills, Harper's Ferry,
the lakes of New York, the Ohio, the prairies, and the Mississippi.
These, indeed, are objects well worthy the contemplation even of him
who has just clambered by the castellated Rhine, or roamed

            By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone;  but these are
not all of which we can boast; and, indeed, I will be so hardy as to
assert that there are innumerable quiet, obscure, and scarcely explored
nooks, within the limits of the United States, that, by the true
artist, or cultivated lover of the grand and beautiful amid the works
of God, will be preferred to each and to all of the chronicled and
better accredited scenes to which I have referred.

In fact, the real Edens of the land lie far away from the track of our
own most deliberate tourists- how very far, then, beyond the reach of
the foreigner, who, having made with his publisher at home arrangements
for a certain amount of comment upon America, to be furnished in a
stipulated period, can hope to fulfil his agreement in no other manner
than by steaming it, memorandum- book in hand, through only the most
beaten thoroughfares of the country!

I mentioned, just above, the valley of Louisiana. Of all extensive
areas of natural loveliness, this is perhaps the most lovely. No
fiction has approached it. The most gorgeous imagination might derive
suggestions from its exuberant beauty. And beauty is, indeed, its sole
character. It has little, or rather nothing, of the sublime. Gentle
undulations of soil, interwreathed with fantastic crystallic streams,
banked by flowery slopes, and backed by a forest vegetation, gigantic,
glossy, multicoloured, sparkling with gay birds and burthened with
perfume- these features make up, in the vale of Louisiana, the most
voluptuous natural scenery upon earth.

But, even of this delicious region, the sweeter portions are reached
only by the bypaths. Indeed, in America generally, the traveller who
would behold the finest landscapes, must seek them not by the railroad,
nor by the steamboat, not by the stage-coach, nor in his private
carriage, not yet even on horseback- but on foot. He must walk, he must
leap ravines, he must risk his neck among precipices, or he must leave
unseen the truest, the richest, and most unspeakable glories of the
land.

Now in the greater portion of Europe no such necessity exists. In
England it exists not at all. The merest dandy of a tourist may there
visit every nook worth visiting without detriment to his silk
stockings; so thoroughly known are all points of interest, and so
well-arranged are the means of attaining them. This consideration has
never been allowed its due weight, in comparisons of the natural
scenery of the Old and New Worlds. The entire loveliness of the former
is collated with only the most noted, and with by no means the most
eminent items in the general loveliness of the latter.

River scenery has, unquestionably, within itself, all the main elements
of beauty, and, time out of mind, has been the favourite theme of the
poet. But much of this fame is attributable to the predominance of
travel in fluvial over that in mountainous districts. In the same way,
large rivers, because usually highways, have, in all countries,
absorbed an undue share of admiration. They are more observed, and,
consequently, made more the subject of discourse, than less important,
but often more interesting streams.

A singular exemplification of my remarks upon this head may be found in
the Wissahiccon, a brook, (for more it can scarcely be called,) which
empties itself into the Schuylkill, about six miles westward of
Philadelphia. Now the Wissahiccon is of so remarkable a loveliness
that, were it flowing in England, it would be the theme of every bard,
and the common topic of every tongue, if, indeed, its banks were not
parcelled off in lots, at an exorbitant price, as building-sites for
the villas of the opulent. Yet it is only within a very few years that
any one has more than heard of the Wissahiccon, while the broader and
more navigable water into which it flows, has been long celebrated as
one of the finest specimens of American river scenery. The Schuylkill,
whose beauties have been much exaggerated, and whose banks, at least in
the neighborhood of Philadelphia, are marshy like those of the
Delaware, is not at all comparable, as an object of picturesque
interest, with the more humble and less notorious rivulet of which we
speak.

It was not until Fanny Kemble, in her droll book about the United
States, pointed out to the Philadelphians the rare loveliness of a
stream which lay at their own doors, that this loveliness was more than
suspected by a few adventurous pedestrians of the vicinity. But, the
"Journal" having opened all eyes, the Wissahiccon, to a certain extent,
rolled at once into notoriety. I say "to a certain extent," for, in
fact, the true beauty of the stream lies far above the route of the
Philadelphian picturesque-hunters, who rarely proceed farther than a
mile or two above the mouth of the rivulet- for the very excellent
reason that here the carriage-road stops. I would advise the adventurer
who would behold its finest points to take the Ridge Road, running
westwardly from the city, and, having reached the second lane beyond
the sixth mile-stone, to follow this lane to its termination. He will
thus strike the Wissahiccon, at one of its best reaches, and, in a
skiff, or by clambering along its banks, he can go up or down the
stream, as best suits his fancy, and in either direction will meet his
reward.

I have already said, or should have said, that the brook is narrow. Its
banks are generally, indeed almost universally, precipitous, and
consist of high hills, clothed with noble shrubbery near the water, and
crowned at a greater elevation, with some of the most magnificent
forest trees of America, among which stands conspicuous the
liriodendron tulipiferum. The immediate shores, however, are of
granite, sharply defined or moss-covered, against which the pellucid
water lolls in its gentle flow, as the blue waves of the Mediterranean
upon the steps of her palaces of marble. Occasionally in front of the
cliffs, extends a small definite plateau of richly herbaged land,
affording the most picturesque position for a cottage and garden which
the richest imagination could conceive. The windings of the stream are
many and abrupt, as is usually the case where banks are precipitous,
and thus the impression conveyed to the voyager's eye, as he proceeds,
is that of an endless succession of infinitely varied small lakes, or,
more properly speaking, tarns. The Wissahiccon, however, should be
visited, not like "fair Melrose," by moonlight, or even in cloudy
weather, but amid the brightest glare of a noonday sun; for the
narrowness of the gorge through which it flows, the height of the hills
on either hand, and the density of the foliage, conspire to produce a
gloominess, if not an absolute dreariness of effect, which, unless
relieved by a bright general light, detracts from the mere beauty of
the scene.

Not long ago I visited the stream by the route described, and spent the
better part of a sultry day in floating in a skiff upon its bosom. The
heat gradually overcame me, and, resigning myself to the influence of
the scenes and of the weather, and of the gentle moving current, I sank
into a half slumber, during which my imagination revelled in visions of
the Wissahiccon of ancient days- of the "good old days" when the Demon
of the Engine was not, when picnics were undreamed of, when "water
privileges" were neither bought nor sold, and when the red man trod
alone, with the elk, upon the ridges that now towered above. And, while
gradually these conceits took possession of my mind, the lazy brook had
borne me, inch by inch, around one promontory and within full view of
another that bounded the prospect at the distance of forty or fifty
yards. It was a steep rocky cliff, abutting far into the stream, and
presenting much more of the Salvator character than any portion of the
shore hitherto passed. What I saw upon this cliff, although surely an
object of very extraordinary nature, the place and season considered,
at first neither startled nor amazed me- so thoroughly and
appropriately did it chime in with the half-slumberous fancies that
enwrapped me. I saw, or dreamed that I saw, standing upon the extreme
verge of the precipice, with neck outstretched, with ears erect, and
the whole attitude indicative of profound and melancholy
inquisitiveness, one of the oldest and boldest of those identical elks
which had been coupled with the red men of my vision.

I say that, for a few moments, this apparition neither startled nor
amazed me. During this interval my whole soul was bound up in intense
sympathy alone. I fancied the elk repining, not less than wondering, at
the manifest alterations for the worse, wrought upon the brook and its
vicinage, even within the last few years, by the stern hand of the
utilitarian. But a slight movement of the animal's head at once
dispelled the dreaminess which invested me, and aroused me to a full
sense of novelty of the adventure. I arose upon one knee within the
skiff, and, while I hesitated whether to stop my career, or let myself
float nearer to the object of my wonder, I heard the words "hist!"
"hist!" ejaculated quickly but cautiously, from the shrubbery overhead.
In an instant afterwards, a negro emerged from the thicket, putting
aside the bushes with care, and treading stealthily. He bore in one
hand a quantity of salt, and, holding it towards the elk, gently yet
steadily approached. The noble animal, although a little fluttered,
made no attempt at escape. The negro advanced; offered the salt; and
spoke a few words of encouragement or conciliation. Presently, the elk
bowed and stamped, and then lay quietly down and was secured with a
halter.

Thus ended my romance of the elk. It was a pet of great age and very
domestic habits, and belonged to an English family occupying a villa in
the vicinity.

                            THE END